


ravens from last night

by ozmissage



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Drinking, F/F, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozmissage/pseuds/ozmissage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pirate, a knight, a princess, an assassin, and a maiden fair walk into a tavern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ravens from last night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IrisParry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisParry/gifts).



> Spoilers through ADwD.

-

_Got into a drinking contest with a pirate. Not sure if I won or lost._

-

“Drink, wench,” Asha commands, and Brienne winces. “Isn’t that what your Kinglasyer calls you? Ah, you’re blushing now. Can’t be the ale, you haven’t even taken your first sip.”

Brienne shoves her tankard further away. The inn is musty and too crowded by half; she supposes that’s to be expected with so much talk of the world ending. Brienne can feel an ache beginning between her shoulders, the tension creeping up her neck. She’s not sure if it’s the raucous atmosphere or the company. The Greyjoy woman is all brash confidence and teasing. One would think she would be more grateful toward the woman who saved her life, but Asha it seems, is not one for gratitude, only japes and insolence.

Arianne is far more courteous. “Ignore her, my lady. She’s little more than a pirate.”

Asha winks at Arianne and lifts her tankard high. “Another!”

A tavern maid rushes forward to fill Asha’s tankard to the brim, and Brienne can’t help but notice the way Sansa ducks her head. Even now in the thick of winter and leagues away from King’s Landing, the girl—the lady, Brienne corrects herself because Sansa is a child no more—still fears being discovered.

“You’re safe here,” Brienne whispers. Sansa barely looks up, but Brienne lets her fingers brush the hilt of Oathkeeper all the same. The blade is a comfort to Sansa, as it is to her. It means safety in these dark times; it means Littlefinger and all the rest will never get close enough to hurt her lady’s daughter again. Lady Catelyn’s youngest daughter, Arya, needs no such assurance.

The youngest member of their motley crew is also its most dangerous. Brienne bears a thin, red scar on her neck to prove it, a remnant from their first encounter on the streets of Braavos. Arya was still no one then and she did not take kindly to the notion that she needed to be rescued. That was three moons ago, before they had cut down white walkers together, fighting back to back, and fled from the faceless men whose ranks Arya had finally seen fit to desert. Now Arya sits on Brienne’s right, eyeing Brienne’s tankard lustily and comparing war stories with Asha. She still looks the part of a child, but Brienne knows better.

“You did not kill a kraken, it’s your house sigil, that would be madness,” Arya says.

“Letting a kraken sink your boat is madness, pup. Killing it…that’s just good sense.”

Despite herself, Brienne smiles and Asha, curse her, notices.

“Ah, the wench can smile. Do you want to hear my tale? It’s the best kind: full of blood and mayhem and sex. Not with the kraken, of course. If you want to hear it, finish your drink.”

“I want to hear it,” Arya chimes in, but Asha holds up a hand to shush her.

Brienne can feel four pairs of eyes watching her. The winds are howling beyond the tavern’s door, even the free cities have not escaped the winter or the white walkers, despite what the joviality of their fellow travelers who are gathered around the tavern’s tables and hearth might suggest. They are all refugees here, all clinging to normalcy where they can find it. On the morrow, Brienne and the rest of her makeshift crew will set sail in the hopes of continuing their quest to Dorne, but tonight they’re warm, their bellies are full, and Brienne wants to hear a tale.

She lifts her tankard and tilts her head back as the first bitter taste of ale hits her tongue. The drink is acrid and too strong by far, but Brienne downs it all in one go anyway.

“Another!” she says raising her voice to be heard above the din. Across the table, Asha begins to laugh.

-

_I asked the most beautiful girl in the world to dance. That’s not the ale goggles talking either._

-

A bard is strumming out a tune in the corner of the tavern. Arianne can not see his face, but the music is sweet. She reaches for Sansa’s hand, and the girl jumps. She had been lost in thought again. Arianne has grown practiced at reading Sansa’s looks; if she had to wager a guess, Sansa had been back at the Eyrie just now, back to being Alayne Stone. Arianne loops her fingers through Sansa’s and gives Sansa’s hand a squeeze. “Dance with me, my lady,” she says.

Sansa glances at Brienne, but the Maid of Tarth is engrossed in Asha’s tale. Arianne tugs Sansa gently to her feet. Sansa is taller than Arianne, but still Arianne takes the lead. The ale warming her belly is making her brave, just as the wine has left Sansa’s cheeks a shade of red that even a rose would envy.

“How can they be so happy?” Sansa asks as Arianne lifts her hand in the air to lead Sansa in a twirl. It seems a lifetime since she last danced, but still her body remembers the steps.

“They are not happy. They’re drunk,” Arianne replies. “One state is often confused with the other.”

Arianne glances back at their companions. The pirate, the assassin and the lady knight—Arianne likes them all. Any bad blood that lingered between their disparate houses has no bearings on their current situation. The world is madness now, and being together is better than being alone. They remind her of the Sand Snakes, which in turn reminds her of Dorne. After a lifetime of dreaming of what lied beyond Dorne’s boarders, she wants nothing more than to return home to her father and her cousins. Each day they creep closer, but as the snow continues to mount and the dead continue to rise, their journey seems more and more likely to fail. The words of Sansa’s house carry the weight of prophecy now.

Sansa moves closer suddenly, her cool palms pressing against Arianne’s as their bodies meet. “I wish I could be happy, even for a moment, but I can not forget what lies ahead of us,” Sansa says.

“Or behind?”

The song shifts suddenly, the soft tune replaced by a bawdy one. As the melody rises, Arianne realizes that Sansa has taken the lead. She pulls Arianne into a spin and Arianne watches as Sansa’s auburn hair fans out behind her. Around them the patrons cheer them on, their voices rising to take up the chorus to “The Bear and the Maiden Fair.”

Sansa does not look happy, but Arianne realizes that she does look free.

-

_I kissed the Maid of Tarth and I liked it._

-

Brienne has grown sullen again. The warrior woman is skilled at killing more things than wights and men, it seems.

“You’re frowning again, and I’m bored to death of sorrow,” Asha shoves the tankard closer to Brienne. “Finish your drink and we’ll go forth to freeze our asses off in the snow.”

“The girls--” Brienne begins, but Asha cuts her off.

“The girls are not helpless. This one is likely to kill us all in our sleep,” Asha says pointing to Arya, who is busy digging into a steaming meat pie.

Arya grins, and Asha tries to ignore the chill that slides down her spine. Not for the first time, she hopes the pup’s taste for vengeance does not extend to the sister of her father’s traitorous ward ( _stupid, sweet boy_ , Asha thinks before pushing thoughts of her brother away). She has survived the winter thus far; she would hate to be done in by such a small girl. Even one such as Arya.

Brienne sighs, but she stands all the same, lurching forward ever so slightly. The woman may be larger than most, but she can not hold her drink. Asha slings an arm around Brienne’s waist and begins to sing along with the song as she directs them toward the door.

“Please stop,” Brienne hisses.

“So it’s the song that has returned the frown to your face then. It is wretched, I’ll grant you that. I can teach you a sea shanty if you like; they’re bawdier and far more fun.”

A guard stands watch at the bolted door, his lips twisted into a line of sullen resignation. His post is dreadfully dull, Asha supposes. At least until The Others or a band of rapers shamble up to cause them all grief. The poor bastard probably wishes for mayhem. Asha knows she would if she had not seen so very much of it of late.

“We’d like to pass,” Asha says.

“Do you know the knock?” the guard asks dully.

“Three long raps followed by two short,” Brienne replies.

The guard startles at the sound of her voice. Asha can tell that he had assumed her companion was a man. Asha squeezes Brienne’s waist and delights at the look of confusion that crosses the guard’s face.

“If we knock, you open this door or we’ll slice our way back through, understood?” Asha says, her words dripping with a false sweetness.

The guard almost smirks, but a second glance at Brienne makes him think better of it. He unbolts the door and allows them to pass.

The first icy blast of air takes Asha’s breath away. It reminds her of the North, but it leaves the comforting taste of salt on her tongue. On the morrow, she will be out on the sea again. She’s been far too long on the land.

“We should not stay out long,” Brienne frets.

Indeed, the streets are deserted, but for the red priests and their ever burning fires. The sight of them makes Asha shudder. There number multiplies by the day.

“We won’t. I needed to see the sea, and you needed to breathe the fresh air before you vomited on Arya’s pie. How can a woman of your size not hold her ale?”

Brienne shrugs. “I’m more accustomed to wine.”

“Ah, so the ale was for my benefit then. I thought as much.”

It was a jape, but Brienne does not laugh. She’s staring off into the darkness of the night instead. She’s a curious person. Steadier and more serious than any Asha has ever known—aside from her uncle since his conversion, perhaps, but that’s more madness than a sign of stability. Asha admires Brienne’s quiet strength. She admires her dogged determination as well. She could use someone like Brienne in her crew when the world righted itself once more.

“How are your sea legs?” Asha tries again. She does not like to dwell too long in the quiet, it leaves far too much time for contemplation.

“I’m from an island,” Brienne replies.

Asha smiles softly. “So you are.”

A funny sort of thought crosses Asha’s mind as she stares at Brienne through the gloom. She is not a great beauty, but neither is she as hideous as she believes herself to be. On impulse, Asha reaches up to trace the mark Arya left on Brienne’s neck. Brienne flinches away, but Asha follows, her fingers drifting higher to Brienne's ruined cheek.

“What are you doing?” Brienne asks warily.

“It’s often said scars make a man, but they make a woman too.” Asha rises to the tips of her toes, and lets her lips brush against Brienne’s scar, before lifting her head to meet Brienne’s mouth with her own. The kiss is brief and chaster than Asha would have liked, but it’s sweet all the same.

“I have not forgotten that you saved my life, Brienne,” she says. “Now, shall I do the ridiculous knock or shall you?”

-

_Did I tell you my plans for total world domination last night? Because I may have to kill you now._

-

Arianne watches Sansa when she thinks no one is looking.

The cook is putting rats into the meat pies because his pantry is all but bare.

Jaqen H’ghar is the bard, but his face has changed once more.

Those are three new things. Arya sips at Brienne’s forgotten ale and contemplates what she has learned as she waits for Jaqen to acknowledge her. _A girl can see_ , she imagines saying when he approaches her. _A girl has been waiting_.

In the end, she settles for: “Valar Morghulis.”

“Valar Dohaeris,” he replies before straddling the bench at her now empty table. “A girl remembers.”

“Of course, I remember, stupid.”

“So who are we now?” he asks. “Are you still a wolf? Or are you no one?”

Arya is sick of this game. She is no one and she is a wolf. But she does not say that to Jaqen. Instead, she takes a long gulp of ale and smiles.

“Who are you now? A bard? Or a coward?”

Jaqen’s eyes darken. “A man does not take kindly to being called a coward.”

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Arya had hoped to see Jaqen again, although she could never say why exactly. Maybe she had hoped he had more wisdom to impart, but she knew the secrets herself now. He had nothing new to offer her. Still, it was no accident that he was in the tavern tonight.

“Tell them I’m ready.”

Jaqen smiles. “A girl has grown wise.”

He rises then and begins to strum another tune.

Arya turns at the sound of the door opening behind her. Brienne and Asha enter, both of them looking flushed and frozen to the bone. When Arya turns back Jaqen is gone.

“Bed time,” Brienne says by way of greeting.

Arya does not look forward to the day when she has to betray Brienne, but she is not a child. She is no one and she has a job to do in Dorne.

 

“I’m not tired,” she draws out the last word in a whine. _A girl has grown wise_.

“Bed. Now.”

-

_Best. Night. Ever._

-

“Where have you been?” Sansa whispers when Arya finally comes to bed. Arianne is already asleep, but now that she has Arya back, Sansa can no longer sleep without her sister by her side. She is the oldest now, and it is her job to keep Arya safe, even if Arya is the one with a sword on her hip.

Sansa pulls back the scratchy rags the tavern’s owner tries to pass off as blankets and Arya slides in beside her. They used to sleep together all the time when they small, but as they grew older and farther apart, continuing such an arrangement would have led to bloodshed. Being allowed to wrap her arms around her sister is a great comfort now though.

_The pack survives_. How many time had their father said those words?

“You stink of ale,” Sansa says, and Arya elbows her in the ribs.

“Well you stink of wine.”

Sansa giggles softly, and the sound startles her. She has not laughed in quite sometime.

“Tonight was a good night, wasn’t it?” Sansa asks.

Arya is quiet for a moment. “I suppose,” she says finally.

Tomorrow will be treacherous, cold, and long. Sansa lets her palm rest over her sister’s heart, and she can feel Arya’s breath hitch in her chest beneath her hand. There are things her sister will not tell her, things she believes Sansa does not notice, but Sansa has been no one too, and she will not let Arya be lost.

“It was,” Sansa confirms for herself.

And for the first time in a long time, the morrow seems too far away to fret over and the past too distant to matter.


End file.
